


There's Something Wrong in the Village

by LittleMissHeartfillia



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: 90's AU, 90's to modern day au, Abuse, Child Abuse, Found Family, Gen, Journey to Self Discovery, Other, Running Away, Self Harm, Tags May Change, midnight aka macbeth is nonbinary and you cant change my mind, nbm2019, nonbinary midnight, nonlinear timeline, so to prove it i wrote an entire fic about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 15:30:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20311813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissHeartfillia/pseuds/LittleMissHeartfillia
Summary: All Macbeth wants out of life is stability. All Macbeth wants is to know that they are okay. To feel that they are okay. What they don't know is how long of a journey it will be until they can find some sense of who they are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i realize this is mostly a crack fic but a friend of mine is hosting noninary month on ao3 and to participate I thought i'd make an entire fic about one of my favorite underrated characters being enby. It's a self discovery fic that I have little clue where it's heading but it's here for august!

The first time Macbeth started thinking about their own gender was when they applied black lipstick. They were fifteen, and their mother had quite the collection, but black was their favorite.

Macbeth put it on in front of the bathroom mirror, popping their lips together and smiling slightly. They looked almost cruel, they looked more in control. They looked  _ good _ .

Macbeth liked it so much they kept it on throughout the whole day, but when their step-father came home, he didn’t like it as much as Macbeth did. Macbeth was flipping through the latest edition of their favorite magazine, Vogue. Their mother liked to collect the older editions, saying they’d be worth something someday. Macbeth just liked to look at the pictures of the models and imagine themselves in one of those dresses or nice suits.

_ One day, _ Macbeth thought, _ I’ll be the one designing those outfits _ …The cheap fan oscillated, passing over Macbeth’s clammy feet and hands from where they lay across their leather couch. Their skin was sticking to everything and the insufferable heat didn’t do anything to help.

It was a dog day of summer, Macbeth felt like they could see the heat waves coming off their own skin. They barely noticed when the door opened and their step-father walked in, back home from his job at a construction company.

“I’m home,” he called gruffly as he kicked his shoes off by the door. Macbeth didn’t bother looking up as they replied, numbly calling out a ‘welcome back.’

They didn’t notice either, when their step-father stopped on his way to head into his bedroom. He was staring straight at Macbeth, directly stopped in front of the couch. “What the fuck is that?” he asked. His words were the final thing that let Macbeth know he had taken notice of them.

Macbeth looked up confused. “What?”

“That,” their step-father repeated. “On your lips, what the fuck-” he stopped, his expression grew warped and he adopted only anger on his features. “What did you do to yourself,  _ boy _ ?”

Macbeth, not thinking about the lipstick, sat up a little. They stared at their father with incredulity and confusion. “Wha-” they couldn’t even get the sentence out before their step-father walked towards them, grabbed their shoulder from the armpit and yanked  _ up _ . Macbeth cried out when the pain tore through their back. Their step-father never let go. He dragged them to the bathroom and pushed them in front of the mirror.

“That, you idiot! What the fuck is this?” he asked.

Macbeth stared at themselves for a moment. Their hair was just past their ears, ‘too long for a boy’ as their step-father often said and jet black. Their cheekbones angled high and accentuated in the strange fluorescent lighting. The lipstick was as jet black as their hair and at first glance it looked good. It felt good. They felt like themselves.

But the look on their step-father’s face made them hate it. They hated the reaction it got. They hated the expression of shock and betrayal and  _ anger _ on their step-father’s face.

“Kevin, it’s just some makeup,” Macbeth said, twisting their arm out of their step-father’s grasp and turning around. They didn’t want to look at themselves anymore. Not while he was here. Not while he could  _ ruin _ it.

“‘Just some makeup’ my ass. Take it off, what are you some sort of goth girl?” Macbeth had thought that was the end of it. Kevin let go of their arm and turned away with a disgusted look.

Macbeth kept their gaze on the rusted out sink with its drain that looked more like a black hole than anything. They used the faucet as a distraction, turning it on and wetting a few fingers to wipe away at their lips.

Kevin scoffed at them. He smacked a hand to the back of Macbeth’s head. As he walked away he mumbled, “No fucking homo is gonna wear that in my house.”

Macbeth had to bite the inside of their cheek to keep from fighting back. They knew where fighting back got them. The basement, the closet, any sort of tight, cold space Kevin deemed fit enough for a lesson in behavioral issues. And although he had never gotten to that point, Macbeth always feared Kevin would snap and resort to a more...physical punishment.

Macbeth ducked their head, sinking further until their nose touched the limescale encrusted faucet. They could hear him rattling pots and pans in the kitchen.

Macbeth scrubbed until their lips were raw. Finally, they calmed down the rubbing. Their hands rested on either side of the porcelain sink. Macbeth couldn’t understand what was so wrong about the lipstick, but now they wished they’d never found it. Slowly, they looked up.

The mirror held a stranger. Their lips were pink with irritation. Their cheeks were flushed and their hazel eyes caught the fluorescent ceiling light and sparkled with red. Their black hair was a rats nest on top of their head, they hadn’t bothered to brush it out this morning, so it sat, unspiked. Fringes upon fringes lay on top of each other in messy piles. Now that Macbeth looked harder, their eyes held bags under them, discolored bags.

_ Fucking homo _ \- Kevin’s words rang out in their head. He was right. Macbeth was better than that. They didn’t need lipstick or girly clothes. All they needed was to realize they were better off without any of those things.

Macbeth took a deep breath and turned the water off. Kevin had stopped making noise in the kitchen. Macbeth allowed themselves a moment of reprieve where they almost thought Kevin had left the house again. 

Then they heard a hacking cough come from the dining table on the other side of the wall. Of course Kevin wouldn’t have left, it’s his house after all. When does he ever leave? Macbeth took a deep breath and mentally prepared themselves for walking back to their spot on the couch. As soon as they walked out and passed by the dining table, Kevin spoke up.

“You knock that shit off, ya here me?” Kevin looked up from a bowl he was eating from. He had a newspaper laid flat on the table, reading from it. “I don’t wanna see no son I’m raising wearing lipstick like he’s a fucking chick, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Macbeth answered, without looking at him. Macbeth could feel Kevin’s lingering gaze on their back as they walked back to the couch and to their magazine. Macbeth was about to lay down again when they realized the magazine was no longer there.  _ My edition of vogue _ ...they thought vaguely and discreetly looked on the side tables and the floor to see if they had misplaced it.

Then, Macbeth looked back at Kevin. He had a spoonful in his mouth that he chewed slowly, never breaking eye contact with them. He swallowed and something about it looked painful to Macbeth. Kevin said nothing and looked back down to his meal, whatever it was was still steaming and he stirred the bowl. The steam curled around his buzz cut blond hair.

Macbeth looked back down to the couch, where they had definitely left the magazine open to a picture of Julia Roberts at her latest appearance on the red carpet of  _ Pretty Woman _ . Macbeth’s fingers curled involuntarily.

A tense silence easily filled the room, suddenly the weather wasn’t the only thing that made Macbeth’s skin sweaty. Macbeth feared speaking. The only thing that would accomplish was more fighting. More yelling, probably a raised hand too. Instead of engaging further, Macbeth turned away. They walked passed the TV and the fan, and walked up the stairs without a sound.

* * *

The next time the lipstick was mentioned was too soon for Macbeth. They were sitting at dinner, only hours later, with their mother and Kevin. There was something about the look in their Isabella, their mom’s, eyes that Macbeth didn’t like.

Her usually vibrant hair seemed duller than usual. She had red rimmed around her eyes as if she’d been crying. Macbeth studied her features. The features they had known their whole life. High cheekbones like them, hazel eyes speckled with green, a sharp chin and low serious brow.

She picked at the peas on her plate with a bored expression. Not a word had been said nearly the entire night. Then Kevin cleared his throat, and Macbeth almost wished it had stayed silent. Kevin looked up, eyeballed Macbeth, and then his wife. 

“So today,” Kevin began and Macbeth felt a pit of dread open up in their stomach. “Your son got into your makeup supply.”

Macbeth kept their head down, pretending to be focused on the meal instead. They could feel their mother’s gaze as she lifted her head and cast tired eyes on him. “Oh, did he?” she said simply without much conviction. 

Kevin nodded and mumbled a confirmation. Isabella stayed silent after that, stabbing a pea on her fork and slowly bringing it up to her mouth. “Do you have anything to say about that?” Kevin asked after a moment.

Isabella looked up at Kevin, catching onto the annoyed inflection in his voice. “Can we just forget about it?” Macbeth piped up just as Isabella opened her mouth.

Kevin gave them a deadpanned look. He was good at using his bushy eyebrows and thick head to instill intimidation. “We can forget about it when your mother tells you to stop being a fag,” Kevin said, flicking his fork at Macbeth.

“Kevin!” Isabella cried out indignantly.

Macbeth slouched in their seat because this was the start of another bad night. The fan was still sputtering as it turned, trying in vain to cool down the room. Macbeth turned their attention to it, trying to think about the way it jumped and moved as it oscillated, not about the yelling they knew was coming.

“What Is, you don’t think this is important to talk about? Your  _ son _ was wearing  _ lipstick _ .”

Isabella shrugged her shoulders, muttering nonsense syllables before she could say a word. “Who cares, Kev, it’s just lipstick. Let him do what he wants.”

Kevin slammed his fist on the table, making the glasses and silverware jump and clink together. Macbeth jumped with them, feeling the vibrations deep in their chest. “Why do you always disrespect me, huh? Am I not worth anything to you?” Kevin’s voice was strong, unshakable, and Macbeth felt like it was tearing the house apart. They wanted nothing more than to sink into nothing.

Isabella’s voice squeaked out a weak response. “No, Kev, it’s just not a big deal. Why is everything a fight with you?” 

Kevin skyrocketed out of his chair so fast it tipped over. Macbeth jumped, dropping their fork and staring at the scene of a fight about to happen. Macbeth tried to stand up, tried to be as quiet and they could. The minute they took a step closer to the stairs Kevin rounded on them.

“We’re not done talking about this, young man! You stay right there!”

Macbeth gulped, said nothing and sat back down, keeping their gaze trained on their plate. Every moment they stared at the meal they grew more nauseous, but it was better than the alternative.

Isabella stood up now. “Don’t talk to my kid that way!” she screamed.  _ Kid _ , not son. Macbeth hadn’t realized how much they hated when Kevin called them a boy until their mother didn’t. Not that she had meant to. At the time, not even Macbeth knew what that realization of their annoyance meant, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting out of the house before Kevin got worse.

Macbeth bided their time. It was better to wait for the right moment, they had learned that years ago. Kevin would eventually laser focus on Isabella if she kept shouting. Macbeth tried to drown out the yelling, but the words were ringing in their ears. “ _ My kid, _ ” “ _ He’s a little bitch, _ ” “ _ You always act like this _ ,” “ _ Maybe I don’t need to stay here and help you raise a fucking family, _ ” “ _ I WANT YOU TO LEAVE _ !”

Macbeth dared lift their head when Kevin took another step toward Isabella. Their eyes locked with their mothers. Her hazel eyes were wide and terrified. She pulled in a deep breath and turned her attention back to Kevin. Immediately, her expression changed. She narrowed her eyes and prodded Kevin’s chest. Her arms flailed around as she ranted, facing his red rage with a steel will Macbeth had never really seen in her before.

Kevin kept yelling, pointing out her flaws, now he grabbed her wrist and she screamed. “ _ Just LEAVE! _ ” Finally, Macbeth understood. She wasn’t talking to Kevin. A million thoughts ran through Macbeth’s mind.

_ Did she think he could get worse? Could she tell he had a bad day at work when she walked in and that’s why _ ? Macbeth balled their fist because that  _ had _ to be why she was protecting them. Why she was giving them another chance.

Kevin was wholly focused on her right now. He had grabbed onto both of her shoulders, shaking her and forcing her roughly into the kitchen counters. The cabinets rattled when her body slammed into them.

“Stop!” Macbeth shouted. They stood up, their feet nearly tripped over the dinner table, but they reached Kevin. They grabbed onto Kevin’s arms and yanked him away from Isabella. “LEAVE HER ALONE!” Macbeth cried, managing to pry one of his arms off her.

“You brat!” Kevin cried, turning and swinging a fist into Macbeth’s cheek. The impact left a sour taste in Macbeth’s mouth, their head spun and they stumbled back. Macbeth clutched their cheek, staring back up at Kevin. 

His thick neck pulsated, he turned broad shoulders to face Macbeth. Unbuckling his belt, Kevin began to speak, his voice deeper, more intimidating. “I’ll teach you how to act right, you pussy.”

Kevin ripped his belt off and folded it in half, then raised his fist. Macbeth’s breath quickened, their heart pumped faster than their brain could process the influx of blood. Their feet froze, they broke out in a cold sweat.

The belt was inches away from coming down when Isabella threw herself over Kevin’s arm. She cried out his name, but he only pushed her back. Whatever spell had come over Macbeth was broken when they heard Isabella hit the stove with a bone breaking crack. She fell to the floor, limp for a moment.

“NO!” Macbeth cried, lunging for her. Except, Kevin was between them, he easily grabbed Macbeth by the back of their shirt and threw them across the living room. They hit the floor, feeling the whole house shake on impact.

Kevin’s heavy footsteps made the floor crack and whine underneath his weight. Macbeth was on their hands and knees when their back exploded in pain. The belt cracked a welt into Macbeth that seared across their entire abdomen. They fell back to their stomach on the ground, groaning.

Isabella’s voice was small, but she croaked out a threat. “If you lay one more hand on him, I’m calling the police.” Macbeth opened their eyes. Isabella was clutching her side, still on the ground at the foot of the stove. Kevin’s legs turned around for a split second before Macbeth heard him scoff and turn back.

They looked up, laying on their side now. Kevin had an evil glint in his eyes and a scowl that pulled the corners of his mouth into a dark oblivion surrounding them all. “Ba-Bastard,” Macbeth spat around a loose tooth and a mouthful of blood.

Kevin’s nostrils flared. The belt raised again. Macbeth cried out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macbeth has no idea where to go. No idea what they're doing. All they know is they're searching for something better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for abuse are just gonna be throughout this entire fic. But it's slowly going to get better.

“Hey, Mac!” A high pitched voice called from the top of the playground’s tallest slide. Macbeth looked up from the sandbox. It was Erik. He had perched himself on top of the tunnel slide, widely known as the tallest, scariest slide on the playground. His skinny frame looked wobbly that high up. “Watch this!”  
Macbeth crushed the sand city they had been building and sighed. “Erik, that’s dangerous,” they said complacently. The sun beat down, heat waves rose up into Erik’s face, distorting Macbeth’s view of him and making his lanky frame look more skeletal than usual. Erik cackled and stood up slowly.

He nearly tripped once, but he caught himself by holding onto the tunnel’s sides. By now, other kids had started to take notice. Some of them pointed. Another one, Willy the Snitch, stood up and yelled. “I’m getting a teacher!” Luckily, Willy was close enough that Macbeth could lift an arm and clothesline him once he started to run. Willy’s head flew backwards and he wiped out in the sand. Macbeth squat beside him as he groaned and held his nose, tears welling up in his eyes. 

“You tell a teacher and Erik will beat you up after school. He doesn’t hold back either.”

Willy scrambled away from Macbeth, kicking sand and dirt up into the air. He ran the other way while Macbeth turned back to Erik. With a wicked grin on his face, Erik had finally found his balance. He stood, one foot in front of the other, looking back at Macbeth like he was proud of himself.

Macbeth crossed their arms, waiting for the impact and the broken bone. “I’m king of the playground!” Erik cried out, throwing his arms in the air. He laughed maniacally once more, and that was his downfall. A teacher had heard his war cry and looked over. Now Ms. Driscoll was waddling over, wagging her beefy finger up at Erik.

“Young man, you get down from there, _this_ _instant_!” she called.

Erik laughed again. “No! I’m the king I can do what I want! Simba said so!”

Ms. Driscoll actually stopped and thought for a moment. “Sim-Simba?” She blinked then her face turned red. “I don’t care what a fictional cartoon character said, you’re going to snap your neck!”

Erik pointed down at Ms. Driscoll, his other fist resting on his hip. “Jokes on you, my bones are too strong to break!”

Erik’s wailing filled the air as more teachers rushed over to help. He clutched his leg, sobbing into it like he was some kind of feeble little girl. Ms. Driscoll was the first to reach him, and she never stopped lecturing as she ran to his side under the tunnel. Macbeth was beside him next. The other teachers ran over and Ms. Driscoll began giving them a very impassioned rant about how reckless Erik was. One of them was already calling an ambulance.

Macbeth stood by Erik’s side, looking down at him. “I told you it was dangerous,” they said. Erik looked up at them, snot and tears running down his face. He sniffled. Every part of his dark skin was caving in on itself, twisting in agony and desperation.

“Shut up! I’m still stronger than you!”

Macbeth chuckled. “Not with a broken bone, you’re not.”

“Mac, get back,” one of the teachers cooed, placing a hand on Macbeth’s chest and pushing them away. Erik’s crying grew louder and more dramatic the more teachers that knelt in front of him.

When Isabella picked Macbeth up from recess the medics were still carting Erik’s sobbing self into the ambulance. Parents were staring, kids ran to them, telling them about Erik famous last words before breaking his leg. Isabella got out of the car, her eyebrows pinched as she stared at Erik. The doors to the ambulance closed and Macbeth noted how much quieter it was when Erik’s screaming was muffled.

“Honey,” Isabella called as Macbeth walked calmly up to her. “What happened to Erik?”

Macbeth shrugged. “He pretended to be king too hard.”

Isabella’s mouth formed an ‘o’. “O-oh,” she stammered, still staring until the ambulance pulled away. “I see.” Though she didn’t sound exactly positive about it. 

Macbeth opened their car door, throwing their backpack to the floor of the car. “He’ll be back in a few days, probably wanting everyone to sign his cast so he can gloat about his new battle scars.”

Isabella gave Macbeth a weak smile. “Well, I suppose that’s partly true,” she said. Macbeth climbed into the backseat, buckling with a bored expression. Isabella followed her child’s lead. She started the car, but before she pulled away she looked at Macbeth through the rearview mirror. “Are you going to sign it?”

Macbeth shrugged as they looked out the window. “Maybe.”

A flash of Isabella’s old smile came back, the one Macbeth always liked seeing. The one that made the corners of her eyes crinkle up a little bit, and brought a warm glow to her cheeks. “I think you should. Sometimes when we get hurt or we have scars, it’s good to have something that reminds us of that time.”

Macbeth crinkled their nose and looked at their mother in the mirror. “Why?”

Isabella gave a half-hearted shrug. “Because pain is a special thing. It’s good to remember what caused it so we can learn from it. But, well, it’s also a memory for Erik. One he may laugh at one day.”

“Sounds dumb,” Macbeth said and turned their gaze to the window again. The school began to roll by as their mother drove out of the parent pick up lot.

Shou had broken his arm once, he had been gone for a week and came back with a cast. Macbeth certainly hoped that a broken leg would need less time off than an arm did. Otherwise they’d be stuck playing with no one again.

As the car left the school zone and picked up speed, Macbeth found that their mother’s words rang out in their head again.  _ Pain is a special thing. It’s good to remember what caused it, so that we can learn from it. _

_ ~~~ _

“So that we can learn from it…” Macbeth tried the words out on their tongue. The first words they’d spoken since running from the house, and Kevin’s wrath. Macbeth hugged their flimsy gap sweater around their shoulders. It was the warmest thing they’d been able to grab before sneaking out their window with whatever snacks they had in their room and a small backpack.

Their head was pounding and they were starting to get dizzy. Earlier in the day it had been disgustingly hot out. They could barely stand being in the shortest shorts they had, which weren’t all that short at all. Now, it was getting colder by the second. Macbeth didn’t know how late they wanted to stay out, but now that they were gone suddenly they didn’t want to return.

Their leg bounced up and down, shaking their small frame and rattling the metal bus stop bench. There was a pitiful tin cover over their head, just barely enough to cover the mist that had started coming down from above. With the rain came a chill that Macbeth knew they wouldn’t be able to weather if they stayed out much longer. They needed somewhere to be, somewhere  _ inside _ .

Macbeth looked up and down the street once more. Streetlamps stretched into the abyss of the night, down the residential avenue. Macbeth must have walked for an hour, but suburbia never ended. This was the last bus stop before a long stretch of road to downtown.

Macbeth vaguely wondered if they actually took the bus downtown that there’d be a shelter they could stay at. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea though. There was no way they could live like that. At the same time there was no way Macbeth could go back home now. 

Macbeth shook their head as the rain began to fall harder. “So that we can learn from it?” they repeated, their lips were starting to shake, their eyes downcast. Macbeth balled their fists and pushed them into the cold metal on either side of their thighs, hunching up their shoulders as they rocked forward.

Their breath came out in clouds. The rain picked up, pounding like little rocks on their pathetic tin roof. Isabella was wrong. Macbeth could never learn from this kind of pain. The only thing they knew for certain after this night is that Kevin is an asshole, and no matter how he had tried for nine years to fill the hole left by their father, he would never compare to the real thing.

Macbeth didn’t know much about their father, Isabella refused to talk about him. The only thing they knew for certain was that their father had loved their mother. He had loved them both. Macbeth had exactly one picture to prove that. One picture they had foolishly left stuffed under their mattress at home. 

Macbeth wondered if their mother would find the picture. If she would understand, looking at it, that Macbeth missed what they used to have. That all they ever desired was what they knew they had once, but were too young to remember as it all crumbled to the ground. Macbeth’s phone hadn’t stopped ringing the whole walk over. They had listened to three separate voicemails from their mother now. Part of them hated to hear her cry and wanted to go home so they could fix it, but the part of them that was in control would not let them get up from this bench.

The rain downpoured now. Macbeth lifted their head to stare at the raindrops, collecting on the edge of the small roof of the bus stop. The rain made a waterfall, securely blocking off Macbeth from the rest of the cruel, cold world, lest they want to brave those first chilling steps outside. 

Macbeth shook their head. Maybe, if there wasn’t anywhere they could go, there was someone they could call. Someone who would listen. That thought wasn’t entertained for long, though. Macbeth scoffed, loudly, then they started to laugh. They hadn’t had friends for years. They could barely remember Erik’s face from that day.

Sure they had tried to keep in touch, through Erik’s family moving and Macbeth losing touch with the outside world after the monstrous entrance of Kevin’s drinking into their life. Erik had given Macbeth his number once. Macbeth remembered seeing him at the grocery store when he was back in town visiting a friend. 

Macbeth noted at the time, how that friend hadn’t been them, and how Erik had seemed antsy around them. As if he was shy, uncertain, or had forgotten how many days they spent together in elementary school. Macbeth supposed that didn’t matter now. Elementary school and high school were two completely different stages of life. They were too far apart. 

Macbeth couldn’t even be sure the number Erik gave them at that grocery store was the same one he had now. It had been three years since then. Macbeth took a deep breath. 

The rain was falling so hard now, that some of the drops slipped in the space between the tin roof and the glass walls. It flooded the pavement below them, it dampened their hair until their black locks fell flat down their face. The water pooled by their fists, soaked through their clothes.

Macbeth unlocked their hunched up position to reach for their phone in their pocket. They pulled it out, raindrops quickly collecting on the cracked up screen. It hadn’t been cracked before. They must have fallen on it wrong when Kevin...Macbeth shuddered. Best not to think about that right now.

They opened up their contacts, scrolling through them, trying to be casual about the way their thumb was shaking. They found their contact list pitifully empty. Their mother...Kevin...a friend at school they had worked with for a project once, a cousin they hadn’t talked to for months and who lived far away. Then there was Erik. His name was in bold just like all the others, but it stood out more than anything else on the screen at the moment.

Macbeth bit their lip. Their thumb hovered over Erik’s name, blocking it out. They were centimeters away from touching the screen, but they hesitated. It was nearly eleven at night, Erik had no reason to pick up. He certainly had no reason to offer anything to Macbeth. What would Macbeth even say to him?

‘Hey I know we haven’t really talked in five years, but I think I just ran away from home?’ Macbeth let out a sigh and tossed their head into their hands. This wasn’t going to work. They had no idea what they were doing. They had no idea where they could go.

Macbeth let out their first sob of the night when headlights illuminated the dark. At first Macbeth thought the sun had risen in a matter of two seconds flat. Then, as they lifted their head, blinded, they heard a motor running.

A bus creaked to a stop by them. It was still raining and the wipers on the bus squeaked loudly every time they moved. A figure leaned forward on the bar used to open the doors and the smell of leather and musty bus floors hit Macbeth’s nose.

“This is the last stop of the night,” the driver said. Macbeth’s vision was still swirling with darkness. As they focused their sights on the inside they made out more details of the driver. He was rather small for an old man. Macbeth was pretty sure that was a cushion they saw him sitting on. He had a thin mustache and beard, and a balding head with white hair that stuck out at odd angles like some midget version of Einstein.

The old driver took one look at Macbeth and a sweet smile brushed the corners of his mustache. His eyes seemed to glisten with a kindness that Macbeth had never really seen before. This old man looked so  _ concerned _ , but he also looked generous and Macbeth didn’t want to trust it. Kevin had given them that generous look for the first few years too.

“I’ve got no other passengers, son. Where do you need me to take you?” the driver asked.

Macbeth looked up and down the street. They knew getting into vehicles with strangers was usually a bad decision, but this wasn’t exactly the same right? Sure, they may be the only one here and there would be nothing stopping the driver from harming Macbeth, but what choice did they have?

Macbeth shrugged. “Anywhere, I guess.” They slung their thin backpack on their shoulder and took their first steps out of the waterfall of rainwater and onto the bus.

“Anywhere, hm?” the driver asked. “I’ll need more of a location than that. Do you even know where you’re heading?”

Macbeth turned their head as they took their seat, hair dripping. They tried to keep disdain at the question out of their expression, but feared they failed given the suspicious look the driver had. “Yeah, I do,” Macbeth said, trying to sound more sure of themselves. “Just,” they began their voice getting weaker with every word. “Drive me to the nearest shelter.”

The driver nodded and closed the door. He didn’t move the bus at first, just sat there. Then his old wizened eyes met Macbeth through the rearview mirror. “Do your parents know where you are?”

Macbeth clenched their fists. They clutched their bag tighter and stood up. “I can just walk,” they said, beginning to stride back towards the entrance.

The driver didn’t open the door for them and they found themselves staring at glass, waiting for it to move. Macbeth turned back around. The old man almost looked sad. “I apologize. I didn’t realize you were on your own.”

Macbeth raised an eyebrow, the driver seemed more subdued now. He looked out the front window. “I will take you where you want to go.” There was something in the man’s tone that Macbeth couldn’t really understand. His tone was deep, his words curt as if he were sad, but they were also strong and held an understanding that Macbeth never expected from someone three times their age.

Macbeth sat back down as the bus jerked forward. It wasn’t a glamorous coach bus, the seats were smelly and Macbeth didn’t even want to think about what was underneath the patched up leather. But soon the passing street lamps turned into city lights and late night stores still open downtown. The atmosphere was a lot calmer than hours before. Even just sitting on the bench at the stop had felt worse.

Macbeth spared a glance at the driver. He kept his eyes on the road, that same small smile brushing his mustache up into his nose. If Macbeth wasn’t mistaken, that old man was humming to himself.

They shifted on their seat. Out in the cold it hadn’t been a problem, but now their back was really starting to burn. The wounds Kevin left them, felt like they had only worsened in the short hours it took for Macbeth to get this far.

“Do you have food and water?” The old man asked out of the blue.

Macbeth stared at the back of his seat before replying. “...I have enough.”

The old man chuckled. “I’ll take that as a no. Do you have a reusable bowl at least?”

Macbeth shifted, their back was on fire and they had a sinking feeling that hot sticky sensation on their back was blood. Damn this old man. “Why do you care?”

The old man shrugged. “My grandson did this once. You remind me of him, I suppose.”

“I’m not your grandson, old man,” Macbeth spat. They resisted the urge to add on,  _ ‘I’m not anyone’s grandson _ .'

The old man shook his head. Lights passed by, illuminating half of his white hair and the deep set wrinkles on his gaunt face. “No, you’re different. More fearful I’d say.” Macbeth shot an angry glare at the mirror, to which the old man lifted one hand. “Don’t take it personally. The more we fear, the more we lash out. The more pain we are in, the more we wish to be alone.” He looked into the mirror. Stormy gray eyes stared at Macbeth’s every detail. It was like he was analyzing them. Studying, savoring, remembering.

Macbeth was sure he had expected them to say something, but what could they say? They had no more words, certainly not for some geezer who thinks he knows what they’re going through. The old man looked back at the road after a while. “There are many who choose to be alone in this world. But none who can withstand it.”

“You sound like a fortune cookie,” Macbeth managed. They hated how their voice cracked, and how dry their throat felt. 

The driver laughed. “I’ve gotten that one before.” His laugh was lighthearted. It came from an airy spot in his chest that Macbeth envied him for. To feel something that light escape your mouth, to be able to laugh and mean it...Macbeth suddenly wished they were in the old man’s shoes.

They hadn’t realized they’d been staring until the bus jerked to a stop. The driver threw open the double doors again. His hand rested on the lever that pushed the door open. Macbeth hesitated, and they told themselves it was only because the driver was staring at them now. 

They locked eyes, for a moment the driver looked like he wanted to say something, but he held back. Macbeth sighed as they grabbed their backpack once more. They winced when they stood. Their legs were so stiff, and their limbs felt too heavy to move.

“Thanks,” Macbeth said. They began to walk to the entrance, but they stopped when their foot hit the first step down. “I don’t have any cash,” they said, turning around.

The driver waved his hand. “Get yourself inside and treat whatever’s making you wince like that and I’ll call it even.”

Macbeth shifted on their feet. “How did you-”

“You’re easy to read,” the driver answered.

Macbeth looked down at the steps for a moment. They didn’t understand it until it was over, but there had been a strong desire to stay with that old man this whole time. The last thing Macbeth wanted to do was walk into an unknown world with little food, water and an uncertain bed. On the bus they had felt safe, protected, and at peace. Who knew what waited beyond those dark bus steps.

“My name is Macbeth,” they said. Though they weren’t sure why.

The old man smiled. “Call me Gramps.”


End file.
